


Five Times Coulson Assisted And One Time He Took The Lead

by Loolph



Series: The Catch [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5 Things, 5+1 Things, BAMF Phil Coulson, Dialogue Light, First Kiss, First Meetings, M/M, POV Phil Coulson, Recruitment, SHIELD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-10-26 10:32:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10785054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loolph/pseuds/Loolph
Summary: Phil Coulson, agent of SHIELD, the man of few words and not easily impressed is ordered to recruit The World’s Greatest Marksman - one Clint Barton. Or five stages of Coulson in pursuit: “1. He can’t be actually calling himself that, am I right? 2. Oh, he does, are you fucking kidding me? 3. Come on, please, this must be a joke, for real? 4. Tell me this nickname isn’t true or should I shoot myself? 5. All right, how bad do we want him? +1 Then, this is what we’re going to do.”





	1. The River In Egypt.

**Author's Note:**

> This text can be considered as a sequel to [Five Times Hawkeye Missed And One Time He Wasn't](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10581219/chapters/23384016). It sure would make a lot of more sense, if you read the above mentioned first. Or you can read it chapter for chapter, just for the kicks.

1.

“He might be useful. Bring him in.” Fury said, his instructions laconic as usual.

“Yes, sir” were the only words from Coulson and a proper answer to that tone.

But, the way the branch director had thrown the possible assets’ file across Phil’s desk spoke volume. At that time Coulson was just starting to get the hang of Fury’s speak and he was only discovering the man’s unbelievable eye for talent. He was skeptical from the first glance, though, being a little bit spiteful and stubborn.

After reading the file, he was even more not impressed with the assignment. Looking back at that moment, Phil knew he was so in denial of the kids’ skills, he was practically swimming in the river in Egypt, neck deep. No-one could have done, what Barton, Clinton Francis was supposed to have done, was caught doing or was proven to have done in all two years of being a gun for hire. Now, at the age of 18, he was beginning to be recognize as a professional, which was something else. But the sources were unreliable at best and simply making shit up at worst in Phil’s book. Also, Coulson was more of 'I have to see it to believe it' kind of guy.

So, he had sent some fliers through black ops channels about a hit on a very unpleasant gangster of Russian descent, who double crossed SHIELD in the past and his knowledge of the organization had begun to pose a serious threat. Classic two birds with one stone scenario. Phil would plug a leak using an outsider to keep SHIELD’s status clean and observe the young Hawkeye’s handiwork at its advertised best. Which he hadn’t expected to be much and he had solemnly swear to himself to tell director Fury just that as soon as possible.

“Ok, listen up people. This is what I need.” Phil informed his small, but carefully handpicked team one rainy weekend. At his order, they commandeered CIA’s Coney Island safe house, hacked some US Navy poorly firewalled satellite feed over the Little Russia’s streets and mooched on bad Thai take away, brought by an unlucky and drenched baby agent. And then Phil nearly choked on it, once he saw what Barton was planning to do.

This perch could never work. Didn’t this kid read the kill file? Hadn’t he known what research meant? Was he thinking about taking the shot on the go? Was he thinking at all?! The projectile’s path was wrong, no opening visible, the target’s detail too tight. The window was, if any existed, too short to even breath, not to mention take. His approach was unrealistic, sniper abilities decreasing fast with every hour spent laying motionless in this weather, now in one digit percent ball park of success rate, if Phil was being charitable here. It was impossible to be certain of the kill shot, too many variables, too many unknowns.

“What are you doing here, Barton?” Phil was wondering out loud. He was breaking at the seams, facing the impossible, a feeling Coulson soon discovered to always experience in connection with Clint. It had put him in a permanent state of unease. It also made him think. And challenge himself.

On the one hand, he was glad to be finally proven of being right to distrust the whole World’s Greatest Marksman thing. Come on, no-one was that good. All Phil had to do was to just kick back, enjoy the show, collect data and maybe rub it in Fury’s face, if he was feeling suicidal. But that meant the mobster walking away. And here had laid the dilemma.

Because, on the other hand and unfortunately for Coulson, he knew what to do to salvage this op. And fuck Fury, because the old bastard knew Phil would act on it too. No matter how crazy the approach was, how unreliable the conditions were, Phil knew that he could give a single window to the young sniper. It would be highly dangerous and putting oneself in the line of fire. Also, so against any SHIELDs protocols, Phil truly could buy a raft and float by himself from Lake Victoria to the Nile delta.

“Fuck, I’m really going to do this,” Phil thought to himself, walking towards standing Russian gang, shivering under waves of cold rain, wind blowing at and around him even under a black umbrella, caring all kind of smells. He was consciously going to put himself in the path of a bullet shot by an unproven gunman with authority issues to make this job work.

It took some impeccable timing, but then, the impossible happened. The bullet buzzed by his ear and had found its target like nothing Phil had ever seen in his entire career. He almost lost it on the spot, only his momentum carrying him further down the road from the scene. He was speechless, his mind frozen. Later, the ballistics, after 11 days of calculations, decided that there was “8,1% chance of successfully hitting the target”. But they were being generous, Phil was there. It was impossible to be done to begin with. Period.

He couldn’t possible be this lucky again. Could he?

Truly, an Egyptian boat time share on the Nile.

Boy, was Coulson ever proven to be more wrong in his life.


	2. Management Issues.

2.

“You do know he made you, right, sir?” Agent Cho was trying to be subtle, but missed it by a mile, the amusement clear in his voice. The man had no self-preservation instincts whatsoever.

“Yes, I know, thank you for your observational skills, Agent Cho, much appreciated.” Phil sarcasm dribbled heavily from his tone. The disdain in it should burn right through the agent and his office’s carpet.

But, he knew he got burned the moment they reviewed the surveillance footage. The second the kid hesitated in the middle of his get away, like a thought just struck him made Coulson angry on the inside and cringe on the outside. Phil’s non-reaction at the shooting was a rookie’s mistake. He should’ve faint concern or play startled. His unusually calm demeanor was standing out in the worst possible way. Damn it.

Clint’s behavior in the following days surpassed a healthy dose of paranoia in this line of work and went straight to the cuckoo land. Which would have been funny if it weren’t so effective in the evasive technics department. How the hell did he do that? Did Hawkeye truly had eyes at the back of the head or something? Coulson was burning through on the ground surveillance personnel faster than any other handler ever. It was turning his mood fouler on a day to day basis. Agents begun to purposely stay clear of him.

Since Barton’s tricks were not a thing to be trifled with, Phil decided that it was time to go to the offensive. Director Fury backed him up. He was getting urgent requests for assistance from Italian branch of SHIELD about some overconfident mafia boss lady with a flare for rubbing the law’s face in its ineptitude and rule stickling. No one was enjoying this situation and a solution had finally been stamped with 'any means necessary' seal by the top brass.

“It’s just so Mediterranean, this showing off” Phil muttered, while staking out the place the target liked to hung out and enjoying some sun, good food and even better coffee. This would be a nice change of circumstances, if it weren’t for Barton’s approach. Which was closing on insane and drove Phil up the wall.

The kid was deciding on close quarters termination. With all that fire power the opposing side was clearly showing off, it was damn near suicidal attempt. Not to mention high probability of bystander’s loosing their lives in regular gun fight slash Mexican stand off kind of a shoot out. Didn’t this kid see that? Hadn’t he heard of human shield concept? What was his plan?!

Apparently, a drive by was his plan. In the middle of the street. In the middle of the morning rush. On a goddamn scooter. And it had to be done fast and secretly, from a cover of something. Getting a hang of how the kid's mind worked, Coulson was putting his money on the silenced pistol and shooting from the hip. This was so irresponsible Phil was fuming with his rage.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Coulson gritted his teeth for the hundredth time in the last hour, sipping his delicious cappuccino and going through his notes on this scenario in his head. He really wanted that annoying kid off of his back. He did not had time for this shit. He was a busy man, he was trying to up his clearance to senior agent status, after all.

The other notes that were running through his mind were about signora Maddalena Ricoletta’s business ventures. And that really got him mad. The woman was as effective as she was ruthless, making money the ugliest way possible, turning people into merchandise. Just the facts would sting you hard, but the photos were like acid, burning through your stomach and your soul. As much as Phil hated Barton’s attitude at the moment, he hated Ricoletta’s more.

That is why, each day at 9:30 for the past 2 weeks, he was calmly arriving at a small cafe in a back street of Municipio Roma II for a cup of excellent cappuccino, which he savored while enjoying a morning newspaper. He was considered to be a regular by now, the waiter knowing his order on the spot. Their every day friendly banter about if Phil should order a dessert or not was starting to bore even the most alerted bodyguards of the mafia boss.

“I can't believe I’m about to Do. This. Again.” Coulson complained under his breath, making his stride towards last cafe seat a little faster, once he heard a certain Vespa engine come to life. He was greeted with gusto by the waiter and complete lack of interest from the goons as Phil took the table and opened his newspaper. Just like every other day. Just like always. The coffee was presented, the paper was brought higher, his right hand picked the cup on its way to the lips and stilled mid gesture.

But nothing about today was going to be normal. As soon as Phil’s eyes met a pair of green-blue ones, encircled by a funny looking helmet, something about that sight made Coulson’s anger die out. He would never admitted to anyone that that happened because he just knew where and when to look, that he was getting intuned in the way Barton’s mind worked. He would swear that it was pure coincidence. Also he would never admit the effect of having 3 bullets passing him by like that was none. Not even detail sketches of the scene and phrases like “4,3% of success rate” and “highly improbable, if done again in any other situation by any other shooter” phased him anymore.

Just another day at the office in Phil’s mind.

No amount of anger would help him now and Fury had known.

He was beginning to trust Barton’s abilities. He was so fucked.


	3. It Takes Two To Make.

3.

“Sitwell, please, I beg you. Take over for just an hour. 15 minutes. 5!” Phil almost whined, extending a hand with his headphones. The other man sniggered around mouthful of coffee.

“No deal.” Jasper shrugged, shaking his head. “Don’t be such a baby, Coulson. So, Barton is a talker, so what?”

It was soon discovered, ever since the surveillance switched from visual to audio. And on his direct order, nonetheless, because Coulson deemed it excessive waste of funds after Rome. He felt, that all he needed to do, is to keep an ear out for the kid, that that would be enough. It started as a blessing, no more disgruntled, burnt agents or reports of following target done by inapt probies. Active agents stopped avoiding him. No more tapes to be looked at, or photos of those green-blue eyes, that needed to be appraised and filed that seem to shake him to his core. Out of sight, out of mind kind of a deal.

But then, the office personnel started to murmur, beg and finally mutinied against the shear amount of audio produced by Barton, that needed to be transcribed. They all went on medical leave strike after third week. Which is how Phil found himself with a headphone stuck almost permanently in his ear, with Clint’s live voice almost permanently in his head. If it needed to be done, he needed to be the one doing it, they all concluded and did not budge. It would have been annoying. It should have been annoying. It was annoying. Phil was bargaining with his subconscious, for it to stop finding Clint’s tirades endearing. Barton’s lips never seem to stay close for long, even in his sleep.

Even worst, his conscious mind started to get invested in those one side conversations and it was hard not to respond. Coulson had to make a serious effort not to mutter answers or stifle a giggle at inappropriate moment in the office. Just now, when he heard Clint describing the surrounding sight and scent of Bangkok’s evening in terms of similarity to Coulson’s features, it made something stir inside the agent, pleased and terrified in equal measures.

“The kid is good with words.” Phil rumbled, while listening to his eyes being compared to the blue of the night sky and his cologne to the smell of wolgol tree blossom. No, not the kid, Barton, Phil corrected himself. Clint stepped into the old tiger’s den, just like that. Like it was nothing. No back up. No visible escape route. No weapon.

Just like Clint liked, Phil was beginning to recognize. He must’ve seen the sheer amount of people surrounding the target day and night. Even if only few of them were armed and dangerous and devoted to Mr Dimasalang, it still verged on suicidal to just go in there and kill the man. A very bad, very corrupted and very twisted man. A man of substantial power and means and evil sense of humor, lacing the drugs he despised with poison for his entertainment and ill placed revenge on people responsible of his daughter’s overdose. Those people were long gone and dead, but that didn’t stopped his thirst for vengeance.

“And now the innocent were dying.” Coulson sighted, entering the little tailor shop in the wake of Barton’s footsteps. Because this time, the help was not going to be a spur of the moment thing. The stakes were too high for an improvisation. This needed to be handle with kid gloves, quiet, fast and professional. And that part was the one for Clint, as Phil turned it in his mind endless times and hoped the archer will understand. But the moment their eyes met over the shop’s floor, he was calm and certain Barton did and had it in him. Clint had his target precisely were he needed, at arms length. It was impressive and a little scary.

So, now, all Coulson had to do for his part, was to be as loud and clueless and obnoxious as he could. Just another white, male, lonely tourist, hitting on a lovely Filipino girl. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to be remembered. He might have make a mistake of using a local language, out of a habit, but he was instantly butchering the accent as much as he could, while trying not to wince visibly at the sight of presented clothes. All in the act, within the parameters of everyday traveler’s persona.

The conversation floated freely, the helper accustomed to awkward and unwanted advances and expertly avoiding crushing his efforts and feelings, so to ensure his coming back with money for more clothes and flirting. They were making so much noise, that Coulson barely registered Barton’s angry retreat towards the doors. No-one acknowledged it either, so Phil bargained with his morbid curiosity and careful not to seem haste, concluded his business with pleasantries and left the shop with a bag.

“A knife, really?” Phil was gobsmacked. Only after he doubled back to his team’s surveillance spot, Coulson was able to observe the hit’s details. When the assistant had found her boss, the whole neighborhood buzzed like someone had kicked a hornet's nest. The body was carefully lied near a convenient window for the team to see and the hilt of Clint’s weapon of choice still sticking out of the target’s nape.

Later, when the shady authorities received the right amount of money and averted their official eyes for the SHIELD’s pathologist to get his hands on the body, the tone of his report was even more flabbergasted than Coulson’s first reaction to the method used. His description of right angles and just enough force was in a ball park of Clint’s wax poetic's rantings. Even though the whole Papu Kulafu job was later stamped with “a doubtful outcome” and not to be considered as a valid way of doing things, Phil was sure of one thing.

He was lost. Lost inside of his own head and Barton’s way of thinking.

And no amount of bargaining with himself would make him think that that was a bad thing.

Now what?


	4. The Black Dog.

4.

“Coulson, you have a problem,” said Melinda, catching Phil as he deplaned. She was frowning, while looking at some summary report like it personally offended her. Never a good sign, if you could see emotions on agent May’s face.

“What else is new?” Phil asked, his exhaustion turning his mood blue. “Talk to me,” he added, observing as she coordinated their pick up and departure of the next plane with a raise of an eyebrow.

Lately, those were all he seemed to have. Like the problems were multiplying around the corner, when he wasn’t looking. Like bunnies in springtime - carefree but overwhelming, if you lost track of them just for a second. Like Barton and his suicidal tendencies to go off the script, which May told him about.

This time, Clint out done himself and went of the reservation completely. SHEILD found out about radio silence 12 hours after the fact, since Phil had been away on some other mission for Fury and couldn’t keep track. The news had hit him quite hard. He tried to go about his day as usual, the debriefings, the paperwork, the tests, but it didn’t matter. He was done. Phil bombed his exam for senior agent and didn’t care. He was warming up to the kid. Phil was almost under the red line for his target practice test and didn’t bat an eyelash. He had some expectations for the archer, ok. When agent May had handed him his ass on the gym mat at the self defense class, Phil didn’t gave a shit. Maybe, he felt a little bit depressed. Maybe.

There were no updates on the progress of the op, since Barton improvised himself in the path of mass murder and was taken captive in a third world country. Well, there were - in the form of constant whereabouts of Colonel Onwuatuegwu, the intended target, but non about his assigned assassin. Phil was not optimistic. He couldn’t, as that trait was the first one to go in this business. No news were definitely not good news. No news meant, that hey, we just hadn't found the body yet. But they would be looking, Phil was determined to supervise to it himself.

“We’ll be hitting the ground soon, sir. Port Harcourt ETA in 1 hour.” An eager baby agent barked at Coulson on the comms. Phil just nodded numbly. SHEILD scrambled a proper response team just after 36 hours of Clint’s going of the grid. As he was dozing in his seat on the plane to Nigeria, Phil let himself acknowledge the full intensity of that fact and felt the blues. He knew about the risks concerning this particular hit. The target was hard as always, but the surroundings were even harder.

A terror torn city district, corrupt country officials, dubious back up, non existent infrastructure. To add to the mix, a psychopathic leader with unabashed hunger for power and no compunction of how to get it and children posing as soldiers, effective enough to become a serious threat to the region. No wonder that General Thursday had to be eliminated in the great set of schemes. But going about it in terms of getting to it up close and personal should’ve been a last resort way of thinking. No jumping to it, like it’s an opportunity for showing skill or grandeur.

“You should have acted on some of that goddamn survival instincts of yours, Barton.” Phil sighed tiredly, while he was looking through surveillance photos of the Onwuatuegwu’s camp site. He was surprised to find out, that Barton was still alive. He was less surprised why - Clint was young and healthy and well nourished. Even after the beating he was surely put though, he was again considered to be quite valuable. Well, his internal organs were. And that was Coulson’s way in.

He weighted the different types of approach and extraction in his head all the way during the flight. After seeing the sites and data, he knew that he needed flashy and over the top for it to be successful. A full scale war like attack with brute force was going to be necessary and effective, but not for Clint. In his state and with his location, the only way of pulling him out was using an inside man. A black market, organ harvesting, disgruntled Yoruba ex doctor was a perfect cover.

When he was finally brought to Barton by the target himself, Phil felt heavyhearted. The sight was bleak, the smell - worst. First time in a long time in Coulson’s memory, Clint made no sound and Phil’s touch had confirmed almost the worst. Once beautiful human shape, toned into perfection by rigorous training, sheer stubbornness and a lot of simple swagger, was now in shreds. The at the brink of death state that Clint had let himself to be find in was dole to witness. They seem to have broken him. It made Phil dejection rise along with his intentions of coupe de gras. It was the last and the least thing he could do for Clint.

But just as Phil procured a hidden blade to add a final cut, he was met with a glare so full of blue fire and green life, that he lost his thought process for a second. Thankfully his training made his hands move and mouth flap without any thinking involved. A shameless demand, a slide of a knife, a prick of a needle, a distracting debate later and Coulson was walking away from a dugout cell with a profound believe in Barton’s another successful mission.

Phil signaled his team to proceed with the attack as planned, as he found his cover, body armor and guns to arm himself. He decided to coordinate the take down on the fly and on the ground, even though he feared he might be to qualm to be effective. But he had a good team to fell on, if that were the case. But it wasn’t. They were done in record time, which he later found necessary to address in his report as a counterbalance for the long list of the psychiatrist’s complaints about Barton’s “reckless endangerment issues” and “no self preservation skills”.

They were right in every one of their observations, obviously, but only on paper.

Coulson was depressed, that he might witness some of that Clint again.

But that only spur Phil on. He now knew for certain Clint had more to show.


	5. Ce Qui Sera, Sera.

5.

“This requires finesse, Cheese. You think your wonder boy can manage?” Fury’s sarcasm bounced off of Coulson like water of a duck.

“Yes, sir” was still the only possible answer, while being snarled at by the director.

But a lot had changed. Now, Phil was a pro in interpreting director’s non verbal cues. The way the file had hit the top of Coulson’s desk told lots about this op being somehow personal to Fury. It didn’t change his initial and instinctive response, though. He had all the trust in the world in Clint’s abilities this time. If something was tricky, Clint Barton, World’s Greatest Marksman was the man for the job. Especially now, after Nigeria and 6 months of lying low.

Clint was getting restless, judging by the tap recordings, recovering slowly but surely. Like nothing stuck. Like nothing happened. He seemed fully operational now, both physically and mentally. If Phil hadn’t seen him with his own two eyes in that dirt cell, he wouldn't fully comprehend and admire his recovery’s extend and time frame. But he just recently had accepted the fact, that Clint would always exceed his expectations. If Coulson liked to think about himself as impervious as a duck to water, Barton’s healing factor was to be considered as a comicbook character’s superpower. But even superheroes needed to follow orders.

And Barton’s orders were strict, no deviation allowed. He was to go to the French embassy in Washington D.C., attend Christmas Eve VA and LGBTQ fundraiser gala and put something in the glass of the target. Which happened to be a good woman. A shining example. A fair comparison to why all the other and previous targets were found lacking and had to be eliminated. Judge Claire O’Reilly not only seemed to be too good for this. She really was.

“The plot thickens,” murmured Phil, watching Barton waltzing into the ball room like he owned the place in ten thousand dollar classic black tuxedo. And what an entrance that was to behold. Bold and brazen was the name of the game and Clint played the crowd like a jazz soloist. Just enough swagger to push through the surface of society’s polish, but not enough to brake decorum. He was circling his mark so subtly, that if Phil didn’t knew what to look for, he would assumed total disregard of any actual direction in Hawkeye’s actions. But Clint was circling in, even if every movement projected a hint of underlying hesitance. Still, he remained damn effective, as always.

Barton just didn’t knew all the details, as per Coulson’s orders. Because, this was an op, just not a hit. The liquid to spike Claire O’Reilly’s drink was a tracker, not a poison. It was all performed with full lore and cooperation of the mark’s wife, US Senator Virginia O’Reilly, who was the one insisting for the upmost secrecy, not knowing who to trust. But there was no way of telling Clint that. Well, without blowing all of Phil’s efforts in the process.

“And this is the catch.” Phil though, keeping up appearances while dancing with Senator O’Reilly. This would be a perfect opportunity to conduct an experiment. To get a final, truly impartial result. A double blind test, if you please. Will Barton do exactly what he is supposed to do, not knowing whose lead he's following? Even with a profound feeling of doing something wrong?

And he did. Just like that. All the choreographed stalking and the mark simply handed her glass over with a smile. On the whole, it took one discreet tilt of hand, big mouthful of water, charming swing at the dance floor and switching partners and Phil was facing SHIELD's prospective junior agent, aiding and abetting his escape. As always. A tiny smirk of satisfaction at the job well done was all of the slip Phil allowed himself in front of Clint.

But then, he was expertly led away in masterful frame of a graceful dancer and seasoned fighter. It was like being cared for by a predator and Phil just accepted it. All the strength and carnage, skillfully down played to just simmer under the surface by delight of a hunt and curiosity. It could blow back with full force at any wrong twitch of prey, but Phil Coulson was no prey. Well, to anything but his own appetites, as it turned out a second later, when he got kissed within an inch of his life.

“That is not, what I’ve expected,” was a last coherent thought, before Coulson’s lips took over. And then he was doing the kissing and Barton responded beautifully, all eager and breathless. And it felt like tasting fire, licking the flames, mouths smoldering hot on each other. Tongues tangling, like evened out sparing match with an unyielding opponent. Heads at an angle, like missing puzzle pieces finding their rightful places. Just perfect.

Suddenly, the real world came literally crushing in and they were professionals again, doing their job, finishing the op, being efficient and distant. Clint fell to the background and out of the building like a shadow figure he was and Phil had to fight his body’s quite ridiculous response of feeling abandoned. And then he got seriously engaged in a little matter of saving Claire O’Reilly’s life. Damn allergies, the paramedic in the ambulance said. Had nobody checked for those before choosing the tracking substance, the SHEILD doctor asked, while administrating a proper antidote, which took instantly. Phil just sighed relieved and kept his mouth shut, making mental notes of all the details for the report.

He was leaving his anger and all that for later.

He accepted that the frustration he felt was an outcome of insufficient preparation for the op.

And that his disappointment was about the shortness, but not the kiss itself. He enjoyed the kiss.


	6. There Is No I.

“I have an end game plan, sir.” Phil spoke hesitantly, when the weekly cross department’s debriefing was coming to an end. “For bringing Barton in.” It was a rare enough occurrence, that it got attention of Fury instantly, but not only him.

“Well, it’s about time.” Someone, probably agent Cho muttered and was met with a ice cold gleam from the director.

Ever since the man was promoted to a head of the whole SHEILD organization, his patience for other’s power plays got even thinner. Two additional death glares had shut agent Cho up mid breath. They were sent by senior agents Sitwell and May, whose people skills were found even more lacking than Fury’s, when push came to shove.

Coulson was as bad with people’s shuffling as his two favorite work colleagues, but he believed in his vision and he felt sufficiently supported by his team to lay the whole scope of job. And there was a lot to lay. His plan was elaborate and multicoated and it took a lot of explaining. Phil did patiently elaborate, cutting the whole thing into smaller endeavors and passing it as a whole organization’s training exercise.

Fury was bought on the spot. Sitwell took some convincing. May was not happy with the bait thing. Cho didn’t get it and was just talked over, sulking in the corner, after Fury summarized it saying some people in the room would not find their own asses without a map and a compass. But Phil continued to get Cho on board, because he truly felt that he needed all of SHIELD’s support to catch this particular bird.

“I know what I’m doing.” Phil assured dismayed Melinda for the umpteenth time. He might’ve been exaggerating his confidence in the plan, the back up plan and the back up to the back up plan, but he couldn’t tell her that. Nor could he confide in curious Jasper. It all depended on Coulson, on his bone deep knowledge of Barton’s way of thinking. But after O’Reilly’s job, Phil knew, he had a permanent place in Clint’s blind spot. Time to use it, then.

Coulson had to be in the middle of this op, as exposed as possible, vulnerable even. He knew that he had to be the target, the main event, the perfect bait. That was his one advantage, the ideal perspective. Nothing else would shake Barton enough to miss something or make a mistake. Because, that’s what was needed here. A chance. A crack. A chink in the archer’s good self-esteem armor.

“Target engaged." reported Phil on the team’s radio, still aiming Barton’s way. Putting himself out there, literally in the crosshair worked, to Phil’s pleasant surprise. A little bit of data tempering with the kill file to down play his abilities wielded in a success. Adding a bit of multilayer surveillance and some choreographed spy’s hide and seek to have fun. Then, a little of field team’s effort and even Hawkeye stood no chance. The unexpected happened. With a single shot tables were turned.

Phil froze on the rooftop, waiting for the shift in Clint’s perspective. But the tilt never came. It didn’t happen. Coulson activated B protocol, leading the archer away to the bar. Barton was still playing his angle, confident in his approach, which had him completely blindsided. He was so sure of himself, posturing as if he had seen it all. This was what you got for being a long range kind of a guy. You were missing a whole lot of the bigger picture. And Phil was a master at 360. Well, then. Let’s get even closer and push.

Coulson knew what was waiting for him inside the pub, he was the one assigning posts, after all. But seeing and believing his own eyes were two different things. He knew there would be hell to pay, as agent May, wearing a dick incrusted bachelorette party headband had to tilt her head and fake laugh wholeheartedly at the presents. He knew that agent Cho would be snarling at him for months for being made to drink bourbon in the afternoon. He knew agent Sitwell’s future sartorial revenge for having to smell and be dressed like a park bench drunk. But what nearly broke Coulson’s resolve to stay in character was being nonchalantly served whiskey and coffee by director Fury himself. Damn, that man had his 'not giving a single fuck' act together. His team outdone themselves. Phil never felt so proud to be a part of SHIELD than in that moment.

“Thank you.” Coulson murmured to the retrieving back of 'the barkeeper' and the room at large, his throat tight. He composed himself over the sip of coffee. He wasn’t out of the woods yet, as it turned out a second later, when Barton’s palms went for his weapons in a frankly futile attempt to do something. The guy still didn’t get it. Oh, come on, you’re smarter than that, use those blue-green eyes of yours for something more than just looking pretty, Phil prompted with a pointed look, when plan C took off around them. Being stared at over a dozen of gun sights didn’t seem to faze Barton the slightest.

What caught his interest was his file, thought, placed strategically in front of him. This was Phil’s final masterpiece. His true color. His final proposal. Which, word after word paved the way to Clint’s understanding. This process was rather magnificent to watch, this dawning of awareness, heart warming even, when Barton’s eyes glued themselves to O’Reilly’s final photo. The knowledge of having to be a part of something greater appeared to take some weight off of Clint shoulders.

Barton was grasping at the whole picture finally. He wasn’t alone anymore.

He had a team to back him up. If he chose to accept it, obviously.

But the way Clint’s hand darted towards the next bad guy’s file had told Coulson that Hawkeye had found his people and was sticking around. Phil helped himself to the celebratory whiskey, when Clint drummed his fingers over the new op order and spoke straight to Phil, for the first time.

“Do you want me to slow him down, sir?”

The End.


End file.
